


the truth about butts and wolves

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gender Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Multi, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega Verse, Queer Youth, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no good way to say it: <i>sorry about your surprise sex swap</i> and <i>your nonconsensual werewolf bite also rearranged your butt plumbing</i> and <i>congratulations, I've probably destroyed your sex life forever</i> were not exactly Hallmark sentiments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the truth about butts and wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etothepii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothepii/gifts).



> **etothepii** came up with the premise, **fleete** provided amazing in-person cheerleading, and **clio_jlh** , **sophia_sol** , and **snickfic** all gave me lovely feedback as well.
> 
> This fic also assumes knowledge of the a/b/o universe. If you aren't familiar with it, [here's a great primer](http://snickfic.dreamwidth.org/237118.html) by snickfic. There are both omega/omega (femslash?) and beta/omega relationships in this fic, with one alpha/omega relationship in the background.
> 
>  
> 
> [(additional warnings)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/591314/preview#work_endnotes)

"Stiles," Scott hisses. "There's something wrong with my butt."

"Uh, you've gotta be more specific, buddy," Stiles says.

Scott shoots a worried look at Harris, who's writing on the blackboard. "I don't think we should talk about this in class."

"Right," Stiles nods. "Lunchtime. Omega bathroom, better privacy for your shame. It's a date."

"Something you'd like to share with the class, Mr. Stilinski?" Harris says, not turning around.

"Nope!" Stiles says.

While Stiles really does try to focus on covalent bonds for the rest of the period, it's just no use. He can't stop thinking about Scott's butt. Is it a poop problem? Did Scott and Allison start having super freaky sex and Scott _didn't_ feel a burning need to overshare? It's not that Stiles hasn't given a lot of thought to having sex with another omega—omegas, alphas, betas, fuck biology, he's flexible—but the massive TMI from Scott has been kind of reassuring in a way. Whenever Stiles gets a chance to participate in this mysterious rite, he'll be prepared. 

Probably.

At lunch time, they hit up the omega bathrooms that are farthest away from the cafeteria. They're not really supposed to be here during first lunch while class for everyone who has second lunch is still in session, but since when have pesky little rules like that stopped Stiles? Right. Admittedly, that's totally why Scott is a werewolf now, but Stiles is pretty sure that he's not responsible for whatever is going on with Scott's butt.

—

Stiles didn't really think much about being an omega growing up. It was a big deal to some people, but his parents never assumed he liked pink and his dad was an omega, too, and the town Sheriff besides. Mostly what Stiles knew was that it had something to do with your butt, at least that was what Scott had heard someone say on the playground.

"Alphas pee in it," Scott said, scandalized. "They _pee_ in your _butt_."

"Poop comes out of your butt," Stiles said. They both paused to consider this statement carefully.

"I don't want someone to pee in my butt," Scott said. "Not ever. That's too gross."

Stiles reached out and squeezed Scott's hand. "That's okay. It does sound pretty gross."

Then they went off to play on the monkey bars until they could cope with looking Scott's mom in the face again with the knowledge that someone had peed in her butt.

Stiles found out about lesbians because his mom really liked Rosie O'Donnell and one day he was stuck in the waiting room of her doctor's office, flipping through _People_ because it was that or _Cosmopolitan_ and _Cosmo_ was kind of scary, even though Stiles had found out by now that alphas didn't actually pee in your butt—anyway, there was an article talking about how she and her wife, and both of them were both betas and girls, which was a little confusing because they had kids, but okay, Stiles could see that. He wondered if omegas could like other omegas like that. He mostly liked Lydia, but that wasn't because she was an omega, it was because she was _Lydia_.

His mom looked tired and sad when she came back from her appointment, which happened a lot—there were a lot of appointments—so Stiles asked her in the car, hoping it would be a good distraction. "Mom, can omegas like other omegas? Like Rosie O'Donnell?"

They were at a light, idling, and his mom looked over at him, a funny expression on her face. "Of course they can, baby. Most omegas like alphas, of course—that's just how your body works—but there's no reason you have to. Do you like other omegas?"

"I don't know," Stiles said. "Maybe?"

"You don't have to know," his mom said. "That's just fine, too, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

When they got home, she gave him a big, tight hug and kissed him on the cheek. His mom was the best.

Stiles wishes he'd talked to her about all that more, now.

—

"So, there's something wrong with your butt," Stiles says. "Like, what kind of wrong, here? Let me in on this, I need details."

"So, like, Allison had her hand up there last night, and she said it—felt different—and we had to, like, use lube, because I was all dry and stuff. And it didn't—you know how it feels, dude, it didn't feel good like that. And she had to touch, like, my dick to get me off." Scott gives Stiles his most desperate puppy eyes, like when he's asking Stiles to rewrite his English paper half an hour before class. "I don't know what's going on."

"Uh, so what's been different lately?" Stiles says. He takes a surreptitious sniff, but Scott still smells like Scott to him. "Aside from you turning into a werewolf, but dude, you've been a werewolf for a while."

"There was the full moon," Scott says. He frowns. "Can the moon do something to your butt?"

"I think we need to ask Derek." Stiles clears his throat. "I mean, I know you don't—but who else are we going to ask?"

"He was born a werewolf," Scott points out. "Is he going to know about butts?"

"There's only one way to find out," Stiles says, tapping out a text message.

—

Derek is a beta, and so are his, well, betas, but they'd all been betas before. Stiles might not be a werewolf, but he has a very sensitive nose when it comes to these things—he'd know. Alphas smell yummy, omegas sometimes smell yummy, and betas just smell like betas, which is more of an absence of scent than any particular one. That time Derek tried on a bunch of his shirts, Scott could smell Derek, but Stiles couldn't pick up anything beyond "this shirt is not too dirty to wear again without being washed." Hey, Stiles has priorities, and laundry, well—sometimes it falls behind things like homework and Rift and staying alive, unless he really needs to get rid of the evidence of the latter. 

Anyway, Stiles doesn't really expect Derek's going to answer his text or have an answer to Scott's butt problems, so he can be forgiven for screaming a little bit when he finds Derek lurking in his room after school.

"I got a message." Derek closes the dictionary that Stiles suspects he was only pretending to read for dramatic effect. " _Can becoming a werewolf do something to your butt?_ "

"Yep, that was the message," Stiles says, dropping his backpack at the foot of the bed. Derek's sitting at the desk, so Stiles flops back onto his bed himself. He's beat from running suicides at lacrosse practice; Scott's issues seem a lot less urgent than getting horizontal for a while. Maybe he can take a nap before he starts his homework. That totally won't lead to him oversleeping and waking up at midnight, bright and chipper, nope, not at all.

"Is there a reason that you thought I would be the appropriate audience for that text message?"

"Dude, you're a werewolf," Stiles says. "Forgive me if I was afraid that googling 'werewolf butts' was going to lead me to dark, dark places on DeviantArt."

Derek grimaces. "Why exactly do you need to know about 'werewolf butts'?"

Stiles throws his arm over his eyes, because he can't look at the ceiling, much less Derek, while they're having this conversation. "Scott has a problem. With his butt. Not a poop problem."

"That's not helping me here," Derek says.

"Look, Scott's an omega. Are you not familiar with how omega butts work? Did they not teach you that in school? Apparently he and Allison had some kind of traumatizing fisting incident that I did _not_ want to know the details of—"

"Werewolves don't…" Derek says. "We're all betas."

"Wait," Stiles says. "Are you saying that your creepy uncle broke Scott's butt?"

"There's nothing wrong with beta—butts," Derek says stiffly, like he's offended or something, or possibly afraid of the word "butt." Which, really, is the least traumatizing vocab choice that Stiles could be making here, so Derek needs to get over it.

"No offense, dude, but you do not know from butts. My omega butt is very important to me, it's not, like, a chute." Stiles groans into the crook of his arm. "Oh my god, Scott is going to kill me if I got him turned into a werewolf and it supernaturally violated his butt. I'm going to die. This is the end."

"Scott's not going to kill you," Derek says. "He'll adjust."

Stiles lifts his arm to glare at Derek. "Seriously?"

"Probably," Derek says.

" _I broke Scott's butt_ ," Stiles says. "You do not understand the scope of the problem here."

—

"I'm not a beta," Scott says, crossing his arms.

After the discussion with Derek, there was no way that Stiles was going to get any sleep, so he headed over to Scott's. He spent the drive over girding himself to break the news. There was no good way to say it: _sorry about your surprise sex swap_ and _your nonconsensual werewolf bite also rearranged your butt plumbing_ and _congratulations, I've probably destroyed your sex life forever_ were not exactly Hallmark sentiments. This was the worst thing that Stiles had ever done, even if it wasn't directly his fault.

Stiles always used to think that if he could go back in time, he'd spent more time with his mom, get her to quite smoking earlier, just that, it was all he wanted. He thought about it a lot. He was amending his fantasy, though: he might not tell his younger self about werewolves, but he would make sure that young Stiles understood that long walks in the woods in the middle of the night were not to be undertaken lightly.

"I'm not saying you're a beta," Stiles says. "Just—your butt is."

"Peter is dead," Scott says. "Does that mean there's no way to fix this? There has to be a way to fix this."

"Maybe we should ask Deaton."

"I can't ask _Deaton_."

"I could ask for you," Stiles says. "Say it's for a friend."

"Uh, who else would you be asking for?"

"I could be asking for Lydia," Stiles says. "I could be asking for Allison. I have lots of omega friends. Who—are not werewolves."

"Wait, does Jackson have a beta dick now?" Scott says.

—

"It's a natural consequence of the bite," Deaton says, brown faintly furrowing. Scott is sitting on the exam table, and Stiles is standing beside him, trying to radiate moral support. "Your body responds to the change by healing impurities. For such a substantial change to your natural biology, it must have taken the strength of multiple full moons to complete the transition. Your scent will shift as well over time."

"Hey, don't insult the junk in our trunks, that's not cool," Stiles says.

Deaton shakes his head. "Forgive me—no insult was intended. What I meant was that outside of homo sapiens, alpha and omega reproduction is extremely rare in the natural world. It's unusual for the bite to be offered to alpha or omega humans."

"Wait, so Peter only bit me because he was crazy?" Scott shoots Stiles a worried glance.

"Feral," Deaton says. "Responding to instinct to grow his pack."

"That's why Derek picked betas," Stiles says. Cutting alphas and omegas out of the potential werewolf population does leave fewer options.

Deaton nods. "Betas also have less natural affinity for magic. It makes them better candidates for supernatural transformation. Alphas and omegas who are turned can find their magic… unruly."

"Intriguing," Stiles says.

"I'm afraid that's all I can tell you boys," Deaton says, smiling his inscrutable smile. "Most werewolf lore remains out of the hands of men."

Scott sighs. "Thanks, Dr. Deaton."

In the car, Stiles turns to Scott. "We have to get Lydia to translate some more of the bestiary. Do you think you can get Allison to ask Lydia? My archaic Latin's still, uh, more medieval."

"Yeah, sure," Scott says. "What are you going to do?"

"Get some more answers from Derek," Stiles says. "He's totally holding out on us."

"Great." Scott slumps back against the seat after he fastens his seatbelt. "Butts, man."

"Butts," Stiles agrees.

—

Derek's not at the subway station (just a curious Erica, who still hasn't gotten out of the habit of greeting everyone with a predatory leer, even as she's asking Stiles about their math homework), so Stiles heads over to Derek's top secret apartment that he's pretty sure that no one without illicit access to police records knows about. It's a one-bedroom efficiency in an older apartment complex close to the woods on the other side of town from the high school. Stiles has a hard time imagining Derek living there, but sure enough, he answers the door to apartment 3A with a raised eyebrow.

"How did you track me here?" he says.

Stiles gives him a grin that's maybe a bit on the smug side. "Don't question my magic powers. Can I come in? Because I'm pretty sure you don't want to have this conversation in the hallway."

Derek steps aside to let Stiles pass through. His apartment looks like it was furnished by the local Goodwill, but it's still surprisingly homey. Stiles throws himself onto the couch, which is both extremely comfortable and covered with aggressively floral chintz. "Scott and I talked to Deaton this afternoon. You didn't tell us that that normally werewolves only offer the bite to betas. That's _maybe_ a thing we should know."

"I had no way of knowing what would happen to Scott," Derek says, his lips tightening. "And I bit Jackson because there was no alternative. He knew too much."

"But why did Peter bite Scott? And don't tell me it's because he was nuts. He bit Lydia, and she's an omega, and he offered me the bite."

Derek's lips part and his other eyebrow joins the confusion party. "He _offered_ you _the bite_?"

"So, now that Peter's dead, there's no way to reverse it, right?" Stiles sighs, scrubs his face with his hand. "And even if Peter was alive, that might not work, now that Scott's body thinks it's 'healed,'" Stiles breaks out the airquotes, "or whatever."

"I'm sorry," Derek says.

"Hey, I'm not the one who needs apologies here. Unless you _also_ think my butt is impure and an affront to nature, which, by the way, is gross and sexist, who even says that."

"I don't want to know about your butt!"

"Too bad, dude," Stiles says. "Your uncle bit it, you bought it, and Scott and I are a two-for-one deal."

"Scott's not part of my pack," Derek says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Scott's not part of your pack whenever it's convenient for either of you. He's like Schrodinger's pack member or something. I really don't care? Because this is a problem and I have to solve it. That's what I do. Stiles Stilinski, problem solver, at your service."

"I don't think you can fix Scott." Derek's voice is surprisingly gentle.

The one thing that Stiles really wasn't prepared for was Derek to get this. Stiles was expecting the usual, some screaming, some information flow, some aggressive posturing, at best 0.2 seconds of a cowed expression on Derek's face. He was not anticipating Derek to clue into the fact that this really fucking sucks, and it's not even _Stiles_ who's been affected. Stiles could cope. He's kind of an expert by now. Scott, though, Scott never asked for any of this. Since they met in kindergarten, he's been Stiles's sidekick, and Stiles was always the one who got the two of them into trouble. For example, Scott getting bitten, turning into a werewolf with the wrong kind of butt. Okay, Stiles wouldn't be coping. His butt is pretty important to him. He's an _omega_ , he's always been, always will be, he doesn't even know how Scott is even dealing. This is so not cool.

Stiles doesn't even realize he's having a panic attack until Derek is crouching in front of him, close but not touching. "Hey, Stiles, you have to breathe. Can you do that? Look, I don't know what to—I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Stiles chokes out. He tries to slow his breathing, counts the passage of air through his lungs, in and out, and it's hard to turn off the thudding in his brain (it's always worse when he's taken his Adderall recently), but getting his body under control helps a lot.

"Do you want some water? Or something?" Derek says.

"Sure," Stiles says. He doesn't really want water, but he knows being able to do something makes other people freak out less when _he's_ freaking out. Belatedly, he's embarrassed. He can't believe he had a panic attack in front of Derek, of all people. This is totally destroying his cred. Like he had cred to burn in the first place.

Derek comes back with a glass of water. It's one of those promotional Coke glasses that Stiles's mom used to collect, probably another thrift store acquisition. Stiles takes a sip, and, weirdly enough, it does make him feel a little bit calmer. He drinks half the glass under Derek's watchful eye. 

"I used to—sometimes," Derek says. "Growing up with other wolves, you learn to give people privacy, so Laura didn't—push."

"It's better now?" Stiles says.

"You should go home," Derek says. He takes Stiles's glass and sits it on the table. "Talk to Scott. If he wants I can—talk to him."

"Okay." Stiles gets up. He's less shaky now, he can drive. "Okay."

—

"Allison told me she loves me no matter what kind of butt I have or what I smell like." Scott smiles loopily at Stiles over Skype. They're pretending to do homework. "She's amazing."

"That's awesome," Stiles says reflexively. "You doing okay?"

Scott shrugs. "There's nothing I can do, right? It's weird. I have to, like, learn how to jerk off all over again."

Stiles nods in sympathy.

"Allison's mom is probably going to hate me even more, though," Scott says. "They have this thing about girl omegas being in charge? So going from a human omega dude to a werewolf beta dude is kind of a downgrade."

"Ew," Stiles says.

Scott shakes his head. "Seriously, man."

"But you're doing okay?"

Scott shrugs. "Look—I can't do anything about it. And it's not like my butt is going to turn me into a giant ragebeast or something, that already happened. It doesn't change who I am. I am not my butt."

"That's profound, Scott," Stiles says.

"Thanks," Scott says, without a trace of irony.

—

Stiles has a really weird dream that night where he's a merman, and he kind of forgets about everything else bizarre and supernatural in his life until he and Scott are heading toward the locker room after practice and Scott says, "Should we be checking out Jackson's dick?"

"For what?" It takes Stiles a moment. "Whoa, you're right. You should do it."

"Why should I do it?" Scott frowns.

"Jackson can't actually kill you if he notices you staring at his knot," Stiles says. "Or not. Not-knot. You could say it was for werewolf reasons."

"Dude, I can't say that."

"We're supposed to use the omega showers," Stiles says, lowering his voice to a whisper as they approach the door to the locker room. "Like, you have 100% more ability to pull this off than I do. Use your werewolf stealth."

"I don't really have werewolf stealth," Scott says sadly.

"Imagine you have werewolf stealth? Maybe it's your secret new butt superpower?"

"I don't have butt stealth, either," Scott says, pushing open the door.

" _Imagine_ ," Stiles says firmly.

—

"So, if Jackson still has a knot, that doesn't necessarily mean anything, right?" Stiles says. "It took Scott a few moons for the butt thing. Do kanimas have knots?"

Derek stares at Stiles. "What—how would you even know that?"

"Thank McCall and Stilinski, Knot Detectives." Stiles taps out a rimshot with a flourish on the glove box of the Camaro, ignoring the way Derek's stare turns into a glare. "Let's just say it was out of professional curiosity."

"You are not a professional anything," Derek says.

"I am professionally awesome," Stiles says. "I'm thinking of ordering business cards. You know that if you get them from Vistaprint, you only have to pay for shipping?"

"Free Vistaprint business cards are not professional."

"Since when do you know about business cards?" Stiles says.

"I have business cards," Derek says. He's looking straight ahead at Jackson's house; Stiles can't read his face.

"No, you do _not_."

Sighing, Derek fumbles for his wallet. He pulls out an actual, honest-to-God business card and passes it to Stiles. The card is a warm plum on top with a smooth matte finish on both sides; when Stiles flips it over, there's _Derek Hale, vinter, Howlin' Stump Wines_ in neat, sans-serif print, along with an 845 phone number that Stiles doesn't recognize. "Wait, what the hell?" he says. "You make wine?"

Derek taps his nose.

"I can't handle this," Stiles says, flailing a little.

"That's—not my pack," Derek says. "But Laura and I ran with them. I lived with them for four years."

"So why aren't you calling for them advice? Wait, can I call them?"

Derek snatches the business card back. "Would you call them if this was your—mess? Would you call your dad?"

"Shut up," Stiles says.

There's no sign of the kanima at all. Stiles stayed up all night for nothing.

—

All of the sudden, it's coming up on the end of the semester, and Stiles's heat kicks in, late, unexpected, at the worst possible time.

Stiles's heats have always been kind of unpredictable and out of sync with the rest of the omega student body—he's an athlete, he's scrawny, he might be dying of malnutrition from living off curly fries and Funyuns but he's more likely to be savaged by werewolves first—but he's pretty sure that almost skipping his spring heat entirely has more to do with stress than anything else. He gets a note from the doctor and resigns himself to missing out on a week of test prep. The gross red tide following his heats is always worse than the heats themselves.

It occurs to him while he's boiling both of his dildos and his favorite buttplug (hey, Stiles takes sanitization seriously when it counts) that he won't even be able to vent to Scott about this anymore. Well, he can vent, but it won't be the same. Stiles won't be able to bring Scott chocolate chip cookies when that's all he can manage to eat between, you know, personal sexy times. They'll just be normal chocolate chip cookies, not cookies of omega brotherhood.

Derek shows up on the third day, knocking at Stiles's window because Stiles has it closed for obvious reasons. "Boyd said you haven't been in school this week," he says.

"It's nice that you care," Stiles says, pulling his bedspread up to his neck because oh my god, he still has a buttplug up his ass and he's not wearing anything but a faded MCR t-shirt. "But please go away? Please?"

Derek sniffs. "You smell—"

"Seriously, did you have abstinence-only sex ed or something? Have you never been around omegas at all? It's a fact of life, dude." Stiles is trying not blush, like he has any control of blood flow in his body at this point at all.

"I was going to say, you smell hurt." Derek stays crouched on Stiles's windowsill, probably because he needs the ventilation. Stiles's nose isn't particularly sensitive to his own scent, but he knows it smells like a bordello in here.

"Well, duh," Stiles says. "Look, did you think heat was all fun and games? It is not a party in my butt. I mean—some people like it, but I'm really tired, and I hate lemon-lime Gatorade but I drank all of the other flavors, and even if you use lube like every sane person there's still, you know, chafing."

Derek looks a little pale.

"You asked!" Stiles says. "And now you should go away. I cannot solve anyone's supernatural problems right now. Or butt problems. Any problems."

"Okay," Derek says.

When Stiles wakes up after his tragically brief afternoon nap, there's four bottles of blue Gatorade on his windowsill.

—

Scott's butt problems (and Stiles's butt problems) kind of fall off the radar for a while what with the whole kanima thing and Jackson's death/resurrection and breaking the news to Lydia. Well, Stiles doesn't break _all_ of the news to Lydia. Stiles is going to let Jackson figure out how to deal with his knot being…not… on his own. Hey, Jackson asked for it.

Most of Stiles's attention gets put into helping Derek track Erica and Boyd, because regardless of whether or not Derek and Scott are on the outs, Stiles likes Erica and Boyd. After everything he's gone through to save their furry butts, it's small potatoes to learn a few tracking spells and get Lydia and Danny to help him turn Google maps into something he can use to find ley lines. Stiles wishes, not for the first or second or hundredth time, that they'd been working together from the beginning, but he can't (according to any of his grimoires) actually go back in time. At least it's summer break, so he has plenty of time on his hands.

Time to spend working with Derek, which isn't weird at all, now that Stiles knows that Derek's way of showing he cares involves hydration and getting pissed off at inaccurate locator spells. Stiles definitely hasn't started thinking about Derek when he's getting friendly with his butt on long, lonely nights (or in the morning, whatever), no not all. It's not that Stiles has never been attracted to betas before—hello, Danny, Stiles has _eyes_ —but it's usually been more abstract aesthetic appreciation, less, _take me now_.

Stiles is blaming Scott's butt. Which is sort of blaming himself, but, hey, the butt knows no logic. The butt is Kirk, not Spock. Hypothetically. If Stiles is in anthropomorphizing, _Star-Trek_ -identifying mood.

He's contemplating this one night, at the tail end of a sleepless research binge, when Derek clears his throat and Stiles realizes he's been speaking aloud. "Sorry," Stiles says. He can't exactly blame himself—his medication's mostly worn off and he's about to faceplant on his keyboard.

"Could you just—do you really think about this all the time?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I'm a teenage omega guy. It's butts and werewolves and video games all the time, dude."

"And _Star Trek_?" Derek says.

"The new Kirk has a great butt," Stiles says. "Totally relevant."

Derek shifts against the headboard of Stiles's bed, jostling the book he has braced against his raised knees. "He's a beta."

"So what?" Stiles says. "I'm openminded. I'm capable of appreciating the wonders of all butts. Look, just because your butt wasn't designed for recreational use doesn't mean you can't have a good time with it. And by 'you,' I clearly mean a beta. Any beta. Scott!"

"Can we stop talking about Scott's butt?" Derek says.

"He seems to be okay with it," Stiles says. He pauses to chew on the cap of his pen. It helps him concentrate. "But I can keep talking about my butt?"

"Does your butt have anything to do with locator spells?"

Stiles gets up from his desk and stretches. "I'm too tired to do this anymore. I'm going to sleep."

"The alpha pack—"

"I don't care about their butts. If you want to keep helping me, fine. Just move over." Stiles lies down on his bed next to Derek. It's not a big bed, so this means wedging himself against Derek's side, but Stiles doesn't care. He's exhausted, and Derek smells nice.

Wait, since when do betas _smell_ nice to Stiles? Since when does _Derek_ smell nice?

Stiles looks up and Derek and blinks a few times. "Are you going through your heat again soon?" Derek says slowly.

"That happens twice a year," Stiles says. "Seriously, it's like you never learned anything in school."

"I wasn't really paying attention to that stuff," Derek admits. "I didn't think I needed to—I've never—"

"Butt prejudice." Stiles wags a finger at him.

"That is not a thing," Derek says, even though it totally is. What is it with supernatural beings and hunters and antiquated sexism? "I just—why would I need to know?"

"Everyone has a butt!" That was one of Stiles's favorite books when he was a little kid.

Derek looks down at Stiles, face shadowy against the backlight of Stiles's new reading lamp. "Stiles, you're—an omega."

"I've noticed," Stiles says sharply.

"So why do you…?" Derek scrunches his nose. "You—"

"Hey, it's not my fault if my butt is interested," Stiles says, because he's exhausted and it's late and he _likes_ Derek, he'd stay up all night trying to help him even if Erica and Boyd's lives weren't on the line. "Also, you brought me Gatorade."

Derek sets aside his book and slides down the headboard until he's lying next to Stiles. "I don't know why I like you."

"It's clearly my butt," Stiles says.

"Shut up," Derek says, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: this fic deals with issues of gender identity and involuntary, irreversible sex change. There is some ableist language and one instance where someone conflates the idea of loss of bodily autonomy with sexual violence.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) at tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the truth about butts and wolves [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236310) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




End file.
